As it turns out, most of the books on ghosts that are available at school, when dealing with possession and ghosts, are shit.

Ponyboy wishes that he could be surprised, as he leans back on the chair, already dissatisfied with the book in front of him. Taking lunch here for the past few days had been preferable, the sandwiches from home always filling him just enough — and sneaking into the back kept the librarian off of his back. Right now, it was after school, and he was scheduled to go back to his track meet.

His foot dangled below him, the other too long leg bent beneath him. It's been a full week of trying to pull out any book available to him, to try and keep coming back to this space where he and Johnny used to spend hours there, trying to get through high school together.

The first day, he'd been ravenous for it, looking for anything to explain it. Most of what he'd gotten were books that were old, dense, and a little too biblical for his taste. Most of what he remembered about church didn't seem to help him get around the dense words offered to him, and eventually the fire and brimstone of it all made him uncomfortable. From there, it had been mostly down hill, with only little things springing up, dime story novels and kid stuff that Pony had read dozens of times already or had glossed over.

Most of it was crap and eventually, his mind started to wander to other things.

Finding places in the library where he and Johnny had sat together, a table where he and Curly had carved their initials there back when Curly bothered to come to school; a corner where he and Johnny had figured out a particularly hard page of math one day, and even a corner where he and Johnny had successfully gotten Two-Bit to focus on a test well enough to pass.

Thinking about it made his mouth crack into a smile, all the memories the place held. It made him feel sad too, having to come back here like this, in search of a way to understand what was going on with him. Two years and he hadn't stepped a foot in here, wanting to avoid all the memories, all the emotions that came with it all.

"There's no way that piece of shit library in town will be anymore help than here, kid," Dallas' voice drifts over to him. Ponyboy ignores him, letting Dallas' shadow remain at the edge of his vision. He's got twenty more minutes until track, and Dallas has habits now.

In the morning, Dallas is usually lying beside him if Soda has already gone for the day. He's never there if Soda is beside him. A few times, Ponyboy has caught him looking at Soda, half interested in the mornings when Soda has been busy, making his way through the room to get ready. It made his ears burn sometimes if Soda wasn't fully dressed — and saying much in the morning just wasn't something he normally did and the one time he had, Soda had looked at him funny.

Of course, Dallas had found it funny, laughing in the corner.

On the way to school, if Steve or Soda drove him, Dallas wouldn't ever appear. In class, in the hallways though, it seemed as if Dallas was casual if he was there or not. Sometimes he remained a shadow on the edge of Ponyboy's sight. Sometimes he'd be standing in the hallway, those dangerous eyes glittering as he watched people pass him.

About the only time that Ponyboy had ever felt comforted by his presence was when the inevitable happened: Soc's passing him on the way to class. Ever since everything with Bob, Randy, and Cherry had gone down, things had calmed down in a large way — for a little while.

As much as he'd wanted, in those days, for people to learn that things were rough all over, that they could have changed together…

Things didn't change over night. Socs still woke up rich and spoiled. Soc's still had the large bulk of society behind them and in time, as stories changed as things went on, some of them fell back into old patterns.

Ponyboy got taller, but stayed largely small. The hero shine wore off, and eventually, sharp elbows, casual snickers started up again.

Dislike of them rose up, and as it was almost two years since, things got tense again. Most mornings, things were fine. Dallas drifted around, trying not to touch anyone else (more evidence, Pony thought, that exchanging contact had been as harrowing for Dallas as it had been for him), cracking wise a few times in ways Pony could only here, or keeping his silence as he went with him to classes. A few times, he had a comment or two or a question about hoods and greasers he knew — Pony usually murmured the answer or gave a comment.

It still felt odd to do it, act like Dallas was there with others. It was slowly starting to ebb away, which worried Pony, in the back of his way, a nagging way.

The morning when things went bad, though, he didn't mind. It was pretty quick: a hand flying up, knocking his books out of his hands, and then another hand shooting out to shove him against the locker.

Getting pissed off at this wasn't new. The fury that welled up in him, felt a lot worse than before. It seemed to want to come roaring out of him, and for a moment, Ponyboy thought he might lose his head, punch them back. To say it was stupid was an understatement, when he was on the edge of graduating, with college admissions sent out. One fight could ruin it all, and Darry would kill him.

His temper was there, raging, tired after all this time, threatening to get out, wanting to lash out with everything he'd been keeping close to his chest.

Instead of Ponyboy lashing out, however, it was Dallas who materialized quite literally out of thin air. He hadn't touched Ponyboy again after the incident in the bedroom, and here, he thrust his hand at the unsuspecting Soc with a look of fury that Ponyboy wished he had a camera for to capture it, the way his lip peeled back in a snarl, with the way his eyes seemed to glow with the rage.

A strangled, horrifying sound left the Soc's mouth with the contact. The way his face constricted, the way he immediately went pale felt sufficient enough payback. Ponyboy gathered his things in record time, making his way from the Soc as he crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. His face was still constricted, his own starting to gather around him in concern as his hands began to claw at his throat.

Thinking about how much it echoed Dallas' own death made Ponyboy move faster down the hallway, trying to keep himself under control. "Thanks, Dal," the words come out in their own, quick gasp, not daring to glance back.

The look on Dally's face when Ponyboy glanced at him, was almost lifelike with the livid expression on his face. "I told you — they don't change."

Two years. Two years, three senseless deaths and Dallas wasn't wrong.

Back in the present, he put his hand into his pocket, withdrawing the pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket, taking out a cigarette. Quitting — he was supposed to be quitting — and still he lit one up, murmuring, "I wouldn't have to if you knew anything."

There's no real heat in his voice when he says it. He's got nothing to fear from Dallas at this point — ignoring him didn't get Pony much of anywhere. It was also a simple fact, from the bits and pieces they had talked over, gone through the library when Dallas had engaged. It had been nice to see him actually attempt to help when he'd had a large disinterest in books in life.

Quietly, though, Ponyboy knew that getting attached wasn't… good.

It was hard to admit to himself that the more time goes by, he's starting to become used to the hood again. Not in the same way as he had been when he was fourteen, growing up with a boy who would belt you at one time or another out of annoyance or meanness. It also wasn't exactly like those sparse moments where Pony had felt like Dallas' buddy, either. It felt somewhere near the middle, and when he took a drag from his cigarette, he focused on Dallas, who was sitting opposite him.

"I ain't the brains in this," Dallas drawls out, not for the first time and with an equal amount of understood coolness, "All I know is that fuzz was shooting me and then I showed up in your living room." He leans back in the chair, careful not to pass through it. "You know as much as I do, Pone which is jack shit."

Ponyboy swears under his breath as Dallas talks. "Yeah, alright. I'll still try the city library, then. There's no way those kids could've done this by themselves with a cheap board like that." His fingers tap impatiently on the table in front of him. As much as he doesn't fear Dallas striking out at him, and as comfortable as he's getting, there is still hesitation to push for more.

Dallas still died in front of him. The last thing Dally had done in life was crawl on that wet pavement, gasping for breath, gasping out Ponyboy's name. The memory was still burned into his mind, still visited in his dreams even now. His body was still at the cemetery, he still had been gunned down violently two years ago. Pushing for more, for what Dallas clearly knew and wasn't telling Ponyboy felt like a violation, felt wrong to ask for more, to pry for more as much as he wanted it, as he needed it.

There were questions he wanted to ask. About Johnny. About what happened. About Dallas' last thoughts, about if he really, truly had wanted that.

It all felt too soon, felt forbidden. Ponyboy wasn't the innocent dreamer he used to be, he still understood intrinsically that out of all of them, Dallas had cared the most for Johnny and that he had wanted to die then, he had wanted to explode. He'd done everything in his power to be killed.

Having him here, his eyes boring into Ponyboy's own felt like there was something else. Something more.

He would find out eventually.

Dallas' eyes narrow at him. Ponyboy looks back at him, the questions on the tip of his tongue, unanswered.

That night, the dreams come back again in that odd, static black and white. He dreams of the woman again, her fingers carding through his hair, her words muffled. The sensation of something like love washes over him in the dream - of longing, of a want that would never be satisfied again. A sense of loss.

When he wakes up again, Dallas is watching him, his eyes as cold as ever.

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